Rachel doesn't go straight home after being walked out on in the bar. She stands there for a few moments, trying not to burst into tears in front of God and everyone in the bar. And then she plops right back down on the couch and spends another half-hour finishing off the little bit of tequila left in the bottle. She writes Adrian a note in her journal, gets the bartender to call her a tab, and then she heads home
( ... )
"Hi," he says, looking up and back at her, worry creasing the smile he tries to give her.
She smells like alcohol again. Guilt chases on the heels of sudden jealousy, the question of whether or not she was out again with someone he doesn't know and doesn't know about. It's not fair to her, to think or act that way. She has friends, and he's glad, and he's been inattentive enough lately that he can't expect to know everywhere she's going and with whom. Besides that's not-- He doesn't need to know that. He missed the anniversary of her father's death, let it pass without a word or an attempt at comfort, just because of his own distraction. "Are you okay?"
He hates the thought of her getting drunk alone even more than himself for being jealous in the first place. He hates the thought of her getting drunk because she misses home or her father or because she's lonely. He hates--god, he hates everything right now, in that twisted and panic-stricken way that is sure it's somehow his fault.
That smile breaks Rachel's heart in two. That's all Rachel ever wanted, was to see Adrian happy. And after begging him to give her the opportunity to be that for him... she's going to yank it out from under him.
She doesn't want to. She wants to lie like she always does, paste on a smile and tell him it's okay, it'll all be okay, it'll always be okay. She wants to crawl onto the couch and curl up in his arms and forget everything
( ... )
He reaches up toward her, shifts so he can see her better, and then lets his hand fall. He knew it was this. He wonders if maybe he wanted to tell her about Jason just to distract her, to make her angry or upset, to keep her from confessing the obvious.
What did I do wrong?
And what can he say? 'It's not your fault', 'I don't care', 'Whatever it is, it doesn't matter'? "Please sit," he says, pleading. It's all that comes out. Like somehow if she just comes closer it will be okay.
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She smells like alcohol again. Guilt chases on the heels of sudden jealousy, the question of whether or not she was out again with someone he doesn't know and doesn't know about. It's not fair to her, to think or act that way. She has friends, and he's glad, and he's been inattentive enough lately that he can't expect to know everywhere she's going and with whom. Besides that's not-- He doesn't need to know that. He missed the anniversary of her father's death, let it pass without a word or an attempt at comfort, just because of his own distraction. "Are you okay?"
He hates the thought of her getting drunk alone even more than himself for being jealous in the first place. He hates the thought of her getting drunk because she misses home or her father or because she's lonely. He hates--god, he hates everything right now, in that twisted and panic-stricken way that is sure it's somehow his fault.
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She doesn't want to. She wants to lie like she always does, paste on a smile and tell him it's okay, it'll all be okay, it'll always be okay. She wants to crawl onto the couch and curl up in his arms and forget everything ( ... )
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What did I do wrong?
And what can he say? 'It's not your fault', 'I don't care', 'Whatever it is, it doesn't matter'? "Please sit," he says, pleading. It's all that comes out. Like somehow if she just comes closer it will be okay.
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